Chapter 16.5

The Implementation part 1: Dragged Through the Dirt

A sharp ringing echoed in my mind, drowning out everything else as I stared at his bleeding corpse. The boy who ran, who desperately wanted to live, became lifeless in a blink of an eye. His blood splattered against the white walls before my mind could even process what it was that I was seeing.

My legs buckled. The sharp scent of gunpowder sapped all the strength in my legs, and I collapsed against the hot gray concrete.

His death wasn’t a punishment, it was a warning to the rest of us who would try to do the same.

The boy who ran was used as an example — a wake-up call to their cold indifference.

As I fell to the ground, the feeling of my face against the concrete made me remember that day.

It was hazy, but I remember starving at dirt roads, scavenging for scraps on the pavement. Anything to fill my stomach. I think I was ten that day. The day they dragged me through the streets, my face scraping against the pavements before they shoved me into a black car.

Next thing I knew, I was in a dusty old room, watching an old woman writing on the table. Her face was a shadow, obscured by the light from the window behind her, and behind me was a man in a black-suit. After the faint sound of scribbling stopped, and the two figures shook hands as my life was signed away. Both of their faces were a blur, it was like ink had been smudged across my memories.

I would say I traded one suffering for another, but that implies that I ever had a choice in the matter.

After that, I was introduced to my new ‘home’, along with several others like myself — a place with food and a roof over our shoulders. And a place where our lives were marked by restless training and education. We weren’t groomed for military service, we weren’t dogs of the military; we were molded into the agencies’ operatives — walking weapons designed to serve in silence and subterfuge.

We would return to receive lectures — the basics of geography, politics, and survival.

We trained in the fields under scorching sun and we trained until it set — our hands memorized the shape of the wooden knives and staves that we held all day. We could feel them, even as we clenched our empty palms. Our footwork left permanent patterns on the ground.

Exhaustion was our constant companion.

Each day stripped away pieces of who I had been, replaced by the cold efficiency of their ruthlessness.

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Those who faltered or broke were reassigned, some to technical roles, others as personal servants. But those who persevered continued as planned.

After two grueling years, they told us it was time to reap the fruits of our labor.

For breakfast, we were granted a king’s feast. The best meal food we’ve ever had. At noon, we had no training or lectures. Instead, we stood atop the wooden podium, dressed in all white, under the gold and red banner of the organization.

In front of us were the many officials and officers, watching skeptically with crossed arms. One figure in particular stood out, a large man with white hair and a white beard in the very center, gazing at us with one eye closed.

The announcer spoke of how proud they were, and how they promised that “After the implementation, we would become “pioneers of a new era,” and would be destined to “bring about a new world.” Followed by the indistinct blur of speaker and microphone feedback.

Under the warmth of the sun, a sense of pride welled-up inside me. There was excitement and cheers. I don’t know what it was, but even I found myself smiling. This was supposed to be our reward.

We were driven for about an hour, watching as the roads grew emptier. When we stepped out of the black vehicle, we were greeted by stiff, dry air.

There were about twenty of us children, all accompanied by our handlers. One of the other kids, one with golden hair, waved at me. I waved back, even though I didn’t know who they were. Though we were vaguely aware of each other, we were all mostly strangers who trained together.

I felt an overwhelming sense of discomfort as I looked ahead, to a small white warehouse — an old facility with faded white paint and crumbling corners. I glanced around and realized that the entire town was like this. Empty and abandoned, run down and covered in weeds and plant-life.

One of the black-suited men raised the hatch open, and with a screeching rumble, we were blasted with cold, sterile air.

The metallic hatch groaned, and my skin crawled as I saw what was ahead. Inside the vast, dimly lit room, stood a single figure in a white gown, whose face was obscured by glasses and a surgical mask. But it was not the man that frightened me, but the dozens of small cages surrounding him.

My mind scrambled to figure out what was going on. Where were we? What do they plan to do with us?

Turning my head, I saw that the others felt the same. Our senses were screaming at us not to go in, but our handlers kept us in line, grabbing us by our wrists.

All of us were forced to walk forward, one after the other. But as one of us was put in the cage, he cried at the top of his lungs, the shrill shrieking piercing my ears for a moment, only for him to be met with a black barrel against his mouth.

We weren’t even allowed to cry, unless we wanted to be silenced permanently.

I could feel the blood being squeezed, my hands turning red as my handler pulled me into the facility, every heartbeat felt like it was about to burst.

Everyone complied, and were forced to walk into the building. Each step closer into the cold.

And yet, one broke free from his handler by biting his hand. Behind him were the cars and the other handlers, so he fled forward toward freedom, rushing into a narrow alley, where his fate was sealed. Unable to squeeze through, a clean shot left his body suspended in the gap between buildings.

His blood painted a stark lesson: we were expendable, and defiance meant death.

Fully realizing the weight of the situation, the rest of them entered without a fight. But me…the fear and nausea gripped my throat, and I collapsed.

Too weak to resist, I was dragged through the dirt. My face scraped against the concrete once again as they shoved me into a cold metal cage labeled “201.”

As I placed my hands against the iron-bars, I watched the metal hatch rolling down.

There was no escaping here — not from the cold, nor from the cage, and not from what came next.

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